


Play It Cool

by dasyatidae



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Flirting, Hockey, Ice Skating, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 13:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17788592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasyatidae/pseuds/dasyatidae
Summary: Half of Eames's game is convincing Arthur he'd make a great hockey player.





	Play It Cool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harlanhardway (Target44)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Target44/gifts).



> Happy Valentine's Day, harlanhardway. <3 Hope you enjoy this lil vignette of ice rink flirting. 
> 
> Thanks to kenopsia for looking over this for me.

What a shit morning. Not that Arthur expects to be his best at 5:45AM, but he’s usually better than this. Somehow, he snoozed his first alarm, so he had to rush through his morning routine, and his thermos rolled out of his bag and got jammed under the passenger seat of his car. He groped around under the seat, but it’s really wedged down there, and he’s going to be late. Especially since he had to park two blocks away. And of course, it’s just pouring rain, buckets and buckets, sluicing off his raincoat—what’s his gripe with umbrellas, again?—to drench his pants and shoes.

He’s trudging through the wet dark at an hour _no one_ should be awake, Jesus H. Christ, his skate bag heavier than usual on his shoulder. Then the crisp, chemical smell of the ice rink hits him—unmistakable, even in the rain—and his breath comes a little easier, somehow.

His sangfroid is short-lived, however. He’s just reaching for the door, his chin tucked so the hood of his raincoat doesn’t slide back and the rain doesn’t splatter his glasses, when the door flies open, and someone stumbles smack into Arthur. There’s an oafish “oof!” entirely drowned out as Arthur yells some startled obscenities. He tries to step back, but no dice; he’s stuck, jammed up in the business of some—some— _ugh_ —sweaty hockey bro. Arthur would recognize that particular gear reek from ten yards away, let alone with his face smushed against the guy’s broad shoulder. Their gear bags must be caught somehow—or, no—his skate bag tangled with the guy’s stick.

“Get off!” Arthur snarls, just as the guy says, “Sorry, sorry!” and then “Ow!” Arthur might be standing on his foot.

There’s a clatter of stick hitting concrete. They wrench themselves apart, and—oh my God, Arthur is going to scream—“Did you dump your coffee on me?”

“No,” the guy says. He is obviously clutching a paper cup in one large hand, collapsed in on itself, its lid askew. “…Yes? You did plow into me, mate.”

“You plowed into me, _bro.”_ Arthur glares at him.

The guy sighs and turns to pull the door open again, holds it for Arthur. “C’mon. It’s pissing it down out here.”

They step into the lobby. Arthur unzips his coat and tosses it down on top of his bag. Looks like the coffee mostly hit the rain-slick nylon, and he was going to change out of these pants anyway. It’s not a national emergency. He takes a deep, steadying breath. Arthur just gets so mad sometimes—sudden, hot flares of anger that lead him to do stupid things when he’s already on edge—like kick the chair on which he’s just stubbed his toe, or yell at a stranger for knocking into him…

“You okay?” The guy says, reaching out to touch Arthur’s arm. Arthur’s eyes snap to his face, then give him a once over. He’s put his stick and his huge gear bag down next to Arthur’s smaller one, and Arthur can see that although they’re of a height, this guy is built like a tank—thick thighs filling out his track pants, baggy sweatshirt doing little to conceal his broad shoulders and muscled arms. He has a handsome, square jawed face, framed by messy, sweat-damp brown hair and his drawn up hood. High cheekbones and stubble, cheeks still flushed from his work out. He’s managed to spill his coffee down his own chest, on his hoodie—it’s merch from the local roller derby team, Arthur notices, which, okay, is kind of cool. Unexpected, on this jock.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says. “I just—uh—sorry. For yelling at you. And about your sweatshirt.”

The guy looks down and scrunches his nose at the spill down his front, then waves this away. “It’s cool. I know how to use a Tide pen.”

“You’re the brains of your team then,” Arthur observes, the chirp flying out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He bites his lip.

The guy laughs though, his pretty green eyes crinkling. And fuck. It’s a bad scene, but Arthur has a terrible weakness for bros. A weakness he tries to keep hypothetical—purely aesthetic—at a distance from his actual life—because he’s not in college anymore, dammit, and he doesn’t need to be on the receiving end of that brand of jostling  _no homo_ affection.

“Hey, you should come play with us,” the guy says, lighting up. It’s such a cliche, but his stupid accent is really hot. “That was a beautiful hit you gave me out there. Knocked the wind out of me. We could use another”—he looks Arthur up and down again appraisingly—“center…or maybe you play D?”

With an effort—did this guy really just lick his lips?—Arthur rolls his eyes. He is so very obviously here to be figure skating. “What, because I’m small?” he says, though he knows he’s not really _small._ He’s lean. “What are you, a goalie?” he says, though he can tell by the guy’s stuff that he’s not.

“Because I’m a big weirdo?”

“Yup.”

The guy grins, not put off by this at all. “Nah. Though I’ve always thought I’d be pretty good in net if I gave it a try.”

“You can handle stuff flying at your face?”

“Oh, like a champ.”

Alright, so, dude is maybe…flirting with him? Arthur’s not an idiot; he can follow along with half-assed puns and coy looks. Problem is, you can never tell with hockey bros; they live in each other’s pockets and conduct apparently platonic romances simultaneously too complicated and too stupid for Arthur to follow. Not that it matters. Arthur’s not interested. He’s—well, fuck—he’s here to work. And he’s almost late.

“I gotta go,” he says, jerking his head toward the doors to the Olympic-size ice.

“Come check out one of our practices?”

Arthur grabs his bag and jacket and takes a step away. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we usually play Thursdays and Sundays.” The guy sticks out his hand. “I’m Eames.”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur,” he repeats with relish. “Let me buy you a coffee, at least?”

“Why would you buy me a coffee? I wasn’t even carrying coffee. I spilled _your_ coffee.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been staring at mine this whole time.”

That’s generous. Arthur’s been staring way too hard at this dude for way too much of this conversation. But he’ll take it. “I dropped my thermos under the seat of my car,” he confesses.

Eames grins, triumphant.

“But still no. I have students.”

“Oh! You work here?”

“I do some coaching,” Arthur admits. “My students are probably already out there. But thanks. I’ll see you around.” 

“See you!” Eames calls, way too cheerful for 6AM. What a weirdo, Arthur thinks, biting down a smile as he hurries to the benches to do up his skates. Guy should definitely be a goalie.

By the time Arthur’s changed and put on his skates, both Mal and Ari are out on the ice. Mal is still stretching, using the low wall of the visitor’s bench like a ballet barre, but Ari is already at center ice, practicing her toe loop. “You’re late,” she observes, as Arthur skates over to her.

“Two and a half minutes. You gonna leave me a bad Yelp review?” Last week, Ari kept Arthur waiting for twenty minutes—a third of their ice time—because she was craving hot chocolate. So, yeah, Arthur’s not too bothered.

She leans forward, grinning. “I saw you chatting up that bro.”

“Highly inaccurate assessment of the situation,” Arthur scoffs.

“Oh, sure.”

Arthur turns away to skate a lap, but she follows him, zig-zagging back and forth at his heels. “I think he plays on the orange team! I bet we—”

“Ari,” he interrupts, because _honestly,_ can they not? He hasn’t even had his coffee. “Can we focus on your jumps?”

She makes a face at him but, thankfully, drops the subject. “Aye, aye, captain.”

 

❊

 

The ice rink is busy enough Sunday that Arthur wishes they’d driven the extra half hour south to the rink where they used to skate. Arthur weaves around little kids in helmets and screeching college students clutching each other and the wall, practicing the tricky footwork part of the ice dancing sequence he and Mal have been messing around with while he waits for his friends to arrive.

Finally, Ari materializes at his elbow, sporting a mischievous look he doesn’t trust at all. “So, your hockey bro,” she says. “His name is Eames.”

“Oh, you conniving…” Arthur catches an edge and nearly sprawls forward, catching himself with an annoyed huff. “I can’t believe you!”

“What! He’s a friendly guy. We just had a little chit-chat in the ticket line. No big deal.”

Yeah, right. “Believe it or not, he did already tell me his name.”

“Okay, but did he tell you that he’s single and very much into small, dark, and handsome dudes.”

Arthur considers this. “No, but I gathered as much. Wait, you didn’t tell him—“

“Relax. I did not wax poetic about your longstanding single suffering.”

“Ari…”

“And I didn’t tell him that you think he’s mega hot.”

“Ari!”

“Don’t worry! What I told him is you never date hockey players.”

“Ha ha.”

Arthur waits for her to say she’s joking, but no, she’s dead serious, smiling one of her small, implacable smiles. He groans.

 

❊

 

Whatever Ari told Eames, he certainly isn’t discouraged from seeking Arthur’s company. They begin to run into him at public skates, and he seems to take every opportunity to ditch his buddies to trail after Arthur. He’s either at this rink all the time, or he’s got Arthur’s schedule memorized. (Arthur suspects Ari’s interference here; every time she and Eames chat, they become more buddy-buddy.) He never bothers Arthur when Arthur’s coaching his actual clients—the two beginner adults or the trio of teenage girls he works with on weekday mornings—but when Arthur’s messing around with Ari, Mal, or Yusuf, he tends to turn up like a bad penny, bursting with laughing innuendos and invitations for Arthur to trade his figure skates for hockey skates, _please, darling, just for a day._

Eames really is funny, with this good-natured sense of humor Arthur suspects is so charming because he both genuinely likes himself and doesn’t mind laughing at himself. Plus, he's terribly good looking. That must be why Arthur has so much fun shooting him down, biting his lip to keep from smiling, as he skates circles around him.

 

❊

 

“Arthur!”

“Hello, Eames.”

Eames turns to skate backwards in front of Arthur, but it’s a clunky mohawk. Arthur reaches out to steer him away from a tottering woman behind him, just in time to avoid a collision.

“Careful where you put that thing,” he advises.

“What?”

Arthur waves his hand, a gesture meant to convey the entirety of Eames’s bulk.

This makes Eames smile for some reason. “We need a sub for our game later today,” he says.

Arthur snorts. “Good luck with that.”

 

❊

 

“Arthur!” Eames stops hard in front of him, spraying Arthur with ice. “Can you teach me how to do that spinny jump?”

“A salchow? No.”

Eames makes a face that can only be described as pouting, and Arthur has to fight not to laugh. “You’ll break your face.”

“That’s Arthur-speak for you’re pretty, I think,” Ari mock-whispers, coming up alongside them to shoulder check Eames.

“Oh, well, that’s alright then…”

 

❊

 

“Arthur!” Eames skates up behind him and bumps him gently. “Want to come watch my game?”

“No.”

Eames gasps.

“Do you ever _watch_ novice hockey? It’s incredibly boring.”

The sounds of wounded outrage against Arthur’s ear are truly comical. He grins and steps away, grabbing Eames’s hand as he turns.

“Don’t look so sad. C’mon, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”

 

❊

 

Another rainy morning, another devastatingly early alarm. Arthur pulls his pillow over his face for only a moment before he rolls out of bed. Sure, the stakes aren’t high; it’s just a rec level of competition today. But Arthur is serious about his health and wellness, trying to be good to his body, so he gets up earlier than he does when he’s coaching to drink water, eat a big breakfast, and stretch.

By the time Ari and Mal pick him up—honking in his driveway obnoxiously, a move intended to vex the neighbor who plays techno at 3am—Arthur’s had his coffee, and he feels almost human. He tosses his gear bag into the back seat, because theirs are jammed into the trunk, griping his familiar gripes about how on earth they’re going to fit Yusuf and his bag in the back too. Somehow, the Tetris of it works out. It always does. They drink coconut water and gatorade and yell at each other over the god awful pop album Ari insists on blaring. It’s nice to have rituals. They’ve become almost as important to him as the feeling of rightness that overtakes him on the ice, the exhilaration of flying, the fastest skater out there, the high of winning.

“So,” Ari says, when they amble out of the dressing room and step onto the ice, “We gonna crush the orange team?”

Oh yeah they are.

Arthur’s caught peeks of Eames and his buddies practicing and playing over the past few weeks. He’s made an effort to step away from the Olympic rink whenever he can, to lean against the door of the ice where curling and hockey happens to observe Eames’s moves.

Mal nudges him forward for the opening face off. “You gotta take this,” she says. "Come on, you  _must,_ cherie..."

It’s important to start strong, so Arthur doesn’t feel bad, really, using the element of surprise. That’s basically what good chirping is about, anyway.

“How’s it going, handsome?” he says.

Eames’s eyes widen, and Arthur knocks the puck behind him, right to Ari.

Okay, so Arthur’s kind of a dick, but all his dissembling was totally worth it, for the bulldozed look on Eames’s face.

Arthur has a great time giving Eames’s line hell for the rest of his shift. By the end of the first period, they’re up two, but the game is scrappy, and Arthur feels pushed to his limits in a good way. He hadn’t been sure, a few months ago, about trading the flexibility of playing drop-in games for competing on the local rec league, with a regular schedule, but he’s glad they all made the change. It’s going to push them to play harder.

“You didn’t tell me you—that you _already_ played,” Eames accuses, breathless, drifting away from his team’s huddle during their two minute intermission.

“Well, you didn’t exactly _ask.”_

“What a smartass,” Eames says, more to himself, in a marveling tone.

The buzzer sounds, and Arthur skates away from him. “Weak chirp, dude.”

Second period, Arthur figures he and Eames are good enough bros to incorporate _just a little_ checking. Eames must agree; he lets loose a happy, colorful stream of curses as Arthur smushes him against the boards while they fight for the puck, in the heart of a scrum.

“Oh yeah? I thought you wanted me to play hockey with you,” Arthur pants.

“With me—not—against me,” Eames replies, rueful. “You’re—too good. It’s discouraging.”

“You’re the sort of dude to blink at a challenge. Hmm. _That’s_ discouraging.”

Eames protests, but Arthur jabs the puck loose, down the boards to Yusuf, and then he’s shoving free of the huddle.

The next time Eames catches up to him, it’s an offensive zone face off, and he looks like he’s having almost as much fun as Arthur is.“This is playing out entirely different from my wildest daydreams,” he murmurs, as they set up.

“Oh?”

Eames wins the puck this time, but soon he and Arthur are tangled at the boards again.

“I was going to convince you to play and then impress you with my incredible dexterity,” Eames continues, “until you were dying to go out with me.”

“Pretty basic,” Arthur grunts. “But not a bad plan.”

“But darling—I thought it was an impossible plan—Ari said you don’t date hockey players—“

“I never said I don’t date hockey players. I said I don’t date hockey players on my team.”

Then he’s got the puck and is off, down the ice, a clean break away that leaves Eames’s D looking flat-footed. He can hear Eames chasing him, skating as hard as he can, swearing with delight.

  

♥︎

**Author's Note:**

> I'm vaguely on tumblr reblogging hockey nonsense [here](http://coffeecupandcorgi.tumblr.com).
> 
> The Tide Pen bit is an homage to my fav podcast, [YCDT](https://www.youcantdothatpod.com/about), which you should absolutely check out.


End file.
